Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow worldLike a Colossus, and we petty menWalk under his huge legs and peep aboutTo find ourselves dishonourable graves.Men at some time are masters of their fates:The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,But in ourselves, that we are underlings.

Conjure with em,Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Cæsar.Now, in the names of all the gods at once,Upon what meat doth this our Cæsar feed,That he is grown so great? Age, thou art shamed!Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods!

T is a common proof,That lowliness is young ambitions ladder,Whereto the climber-upward turns his face;But when he once attains the upmost1 round,He then unto the ladder turns his back,Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degreesBy which he did ascend.

Between the acting of a dreadful thingAnd the first motion, all the interim isLike a phantasma, or a hideous dream:The Genius and the mortal instrumentsAre then in council; and the state of man,Like to a little kingdom, suffers thenThe nature of an insurrection.

Cowards die many times before their deaths;The valiant never taste of death but once.Of all the wonders that I yet have heard,It seems to me most strange that men should fear;Seeing that death, a necessary end,Will come when it will come.